


Secrets Kept, Secrets Shared

by squidgie



Category: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Movies)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidgie/pseuds/squidgie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donald loses his wedding ring on a case and comes home to tell Timothy.  But Timothy has a secret he's not sure he can keep anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secrets Kept, Secrets Shared

**Author's Note:**

  * For [storyfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyfan/gifts).



> This is for smallfandomfest. Mucho thanks to tarlanx for pointing me to the group earlier this week. When I read the prompt, the entire story unfolded in my head. Also, mucho thanks for storyfan for the incredible prompt!

Timothy has one secret that he keeps from Donald.  Not that he wants to keep secrets - especially from his husband.  But it's one that he's needed to maintain, lest Donald become worried or ashamed.  And though it's something he's maintained since their marriage, with Donald standing devastated in front of him, he's afraid he may have to finally break down before Donald does.  
  
(Four Hours Earlier)  
  
"Barkeep," Donald calls.  "Another Oly."    
  
Though Donald hated the taste of cheap beer - Timothy has _really_ spoiled him, turning him onto a nicely chilled high-quality vodka martini - he realizes he'd be out of place ordering anything other than the swill he's been milking for most of the afternoon waiting on his target.  So he orders another mug of beer, waiting for Thomas Creechy - nicknamed "Creepy Tommy" by the people he's tried to drug, rob, and assault - to show up in the bar.  The entire case had given Donald the willies.  But after the police had failed to catch the perp by "official" means, Bub Bailey had guided a recent victim to approach Donald.  Not only was there a payout for catching the guy, but also promises from Bub of many, many favors to be owed by the police, if he were to bring the man into custody.  
  
As Don sips on his beer, he gets comfortable in the dive bar, taking off his overcoat, knowing it could be a while.  He sets it on the barstool next to him, making sure his scarf (an old, ragged one he refuses to let Timmy throw out, since it lends to his authenticity on the job) was tucked inside for easy access, his gloves on the counter hiding a pen-cam.  He sips on his beer and waits.   
  
An hour later, Donald squints when the door to the bar opens, light spilling into the darkened room as someone walks inside.  
  
"Hey, Creechy," the bartender says, Donald instantly going into professional mode as the man looks around the bar, taking in the patrons.  After a quick scan, Creechy takes a barstool near Donald.  "What'll it be?"  
  
"Give me a whiskey and a beer back," Creechy says.  He looks around the room, then nods at Donald, who nods back.  
  
Don's glad the man slugs back a shot; he thinks it'll make him sloppier.  And sloppier always means easier to catch.  He raises his mug as Creechy drops the shot glass to the bar and then raises his can.  "Cheers," Donald says.  
  
"Cheers," the man responds, then takes a swig.  "You new 'round here?" he asks as he watches the bartender head into the backroom.  
  
"Yeah," Donald lies.  "Just moved up from Ravena.  Blowing my life savings," he says as he taps his breast pocket, "while lookin' for work."  
  
"What kinda work you do?" Creechy asks, suddenly more interested at the prospect of Donald's money.  "Might be able to help you out."  
  
"Sales," Donald says.  "I can sell anything.  Trucks, office supplies.  _Hell_ , I'll sell encyclopedias door-to-door if I have to.  I just need a job.  Got a few months savings on me, but the sooner the better.  Know anyone who's hiring?"  
  
Creechy nods in head.  "I've got some contacts, yeah.  You got a card?" the man asks.   
  
Donald turns his body away from the man and makes an effort to search in his overcoat.  He feels something warm, realizing the man is leaning in, so he keeps searching until he hears a gentle "plopping" sound and the warmness disappears as the man leans back (Creechy obviously keeping himself true to form by dropping something into Don's drink).  "Huh," he says.  "I _thought_ I did," he adds with a shrug as he turns back to the man.  "I guess I'm out.  You wanna give me yours?"    
  
He smiles as Thomas Creechy gives him a nervous look.  
  
Donald picks up his drink and tips the glass to his mouth to take a sip.  Just as the glass touches his lips, and a smarmy-smile curls up on Creechy's face, Donald drops the glass back to the table.  "Wait, lemme look in here," he says, then turns and puts his hands into another pocket of his overcoat, coming back a second later with a pair of handcuffs.  
  
"What the fuck?" Creechy asks as he jumps off the barstool.  After half a beat, he's out the door like a shot.  
  
 "Don't throw that out," Donald yells at the bartender as he walks in from the back, pointing to his drink.  "And call the police!" he adds as he speeds out the door after the perp.  
  
The bad thing about dive bars is that they're usually not in the best of areas.  This one, the Sunken Jade Tavern, is no different, the proximity to the local landfill adding to the destitute ambiance of the area.  Donald grits his teeth when he realizes that's the way Thomas Creechy is headed.  "Not again," he says, then tries to pick up his speed as Creechy dodges an overladen garbage truck and slips into the smelliest part of the lot; the compost section.  
  
Thanking his lucky stars - and Timmy - for the fact that he's _definitely_ had a tetanus shot, in recent memory, Donald pushes himself and gains on Creechy, chasing him through the slippery muck.  When Creechy loses his footing and slips, Donald is finally able to catch him, Creechy taking a swing at him, connecting with Donald's jaw.  
  
It takes several minutes for Donald to subdue the man, finally knocking him down with a punch to the kidneys as he tries to flee, a kick to the man's balls taking him out a moment later.  "And _stay there_ ," Donald says, catching his breath, as he gets up from cuffing the man, noticing a police unit rolling into the area.  He waves his hands, getting the policeman's attention, telling him, "Get Bub Bailey out here," when the unit draws close.  
  
As Donald waits for Bailey, he explains to the cops about the situation with Creechy, then hands the man over.  The cops radio in, then stuff the filthy man into the back of their squad car.   
  
Donald doesn't realize just how filthy he is himself, until he sees Bub's expression when he gets out of an unmarked car a few minutes later.  "Jesus, Strachey," Bub says, then grimaces at the smell.  "What the hell happened to you?"  
  
"Got your guy," Donald says with a bright smile.  "Wanna give me a ride back up to the Sunken Jade?  I've got a drink with a rufi in it, and video of the whole thing waiting for you."  
  
Bub leans in as a joke and smells Donald, "No thanks," he says.  "I think we'll walk this one."  
  
~*~*~  
  
Thirty minutes later, with the drink confiscated for analysis, a bunch of unidentified pills found in Creechy's pocket, and the video surveillance from both the bar and Donald's pen-camera that he'd left on the counter, Creechy is formally charged, leaving Donald ready to collect a big payout from a client.  "You gonna give me a ride home, Bub?" Donald playfully asks.  He knows his car is dirty, but even _he's_ not willing to subject the Tercel to his current level of filth.  
  
"Not a snowball's chance in hell," comes Bailey's reply.  As he looks over Donald and the complete mess that he's become, he scrunches up his forehead, asking, "Where's your ring?"  
  
"My..." Donald starts, the fingers on his right hand automatically going to his left hand ring finger.  "Oh shit..." he says, realizing he must have lost it in the struggle.  " _Shit_!" he screams, stomping his foot and then running his hand through his muck-laden hair.  
  
"Tell you what," Bailey says, reaching out, but not quite touching Donald.  "I'll get a couple uniforms to go back to the dump with you, have them help you search, then take you home.  We'll call it a favor."  
  
Crestfallen, Donald looks at the floor and shuffles his feet.  "Thanks, Bub," he quietly says, knowing the situation was all but hopeless, then heads out with the officers.  
  
~*~*~  
  
Timothy usually makes it home before Donald, and today seems to be no different based on the stillness of the house.  He drops his overcoat on the rack and his briefcase in his den, then turns on the stereo to his favorite classical station and disappears into the kitchen to make himself a drink.  
  
Forty-five minutes and two martinis later, Timothy hears the front door open and close.  He looks up from the Senator's bill he's revising and calls towards the front of the house.  "Back here, darling."  
  
"I, uh," comes a response, then silence.  "Can you bring me a trash bag, sweetheart?"  
  
"Donald?" Timothy calls.  He gets up to go investigate, then notices a strange odor.  "What is that-"  He stops in his tracks when he sees Donald standing on their tiled entryway, covered in everything from coffee grounds, to Jello, to stains that challenge the rainbow.  "Oh, sweetheart," he manages, trying to remember to breathe through his mouth and avoid the smell.  "Are you okay, darling?"  
  
"Yeah...  Just..."  
  
"Tell me you _at least_ caught the guy, yes?" he asks, smiling when Donald nods his head.  "Well, I _would_ make you a celebratory martini, but I think a shower would be in order first."  
  
Timothy dons a pair of latex gloves, then lets Donald get undressed, bagging his ruined suit and shoes.  "Wait here," he instructs, then drops the bag outside the backdoor (there's _no way_ the clothes can be salvaged) before going upstairs to turn on the shower, then grabs Donald's slippers and robe on his way back.  "Here," he says, handing over the slippers for Donald to step into as he puts the robe over his husband's shoulders.    
  
"Timmy," Donald starts to argue.  
  
"Donald, darling," Timothy says as he stops Donald before he can argue further.  "You are _not_ messing up my freshly-cleaned carpets.  These things will wash."  With a kiss to Donald's robe-protected shoulder, he adds, "Now let's go upstairs and get you cleaned up."  
  
For all of Donald's sputtering and underlying worry that he seems to be trying to shake off, he quiets down as soon as Timothy wrangles him into the shower.  Timothy goes to their walk-in closet and takes off his suit, hanging it up, while giving Donald a few minutes under the scalding water to get the worst of the day off of him.  Figuring it's enough time, Timothy removes his undershirt and boxers, then approaches the shower, the steam mixing with his trimmed chest hair and slicking down his chest.  "Is it safe?" he playfully asks.   
  
"Yeah," comes the dejected sounding reply.  
  
Timothy opens the shower door, smiling when he sees his beautifully naked husband standing under the heavy stream, water trickling over the tattoo on Donald's lower back before disappearing between Donald's cheeks.  He closes the door behind him, Donald obviously hearing since he turns around, giving Timothy a sardonic smile as Timothy reaches up, pulling Donald to him.  
  
"You wanna talk about it?" Timothy asks as Donald rests his head on Timothy's chest, not getting a response.  To help ease the tension away, Timothy gently pushes Donald under the spray, then says, "Let me wash your hair."  It was a simple thing, but something he knows Donald loves, often resulting in turning the man into putty.  
  
"There," Timothy says with a smile, letting Donald come back and bury his face in Timothy's chest.  They stand like that for a few minutes, Donald not stirring, until Timothy squeezes Donald's shoulders.  He runs his hands down Donald's arms, stopping to gently claim Donald's hands within his own when he realizes something feels different.  He looks down, noticing the ever-present gold band on Donald's ring finger is missing.  And just like that, Timothy knows, _really knows_ what's bothering his husband.  
  
Donald blushes as his secret is found out, then turns his face down to the shower floor and shuffles his feet.  Just as he's about to talk, Timothy leans forward, cutting the water off.  "I think that should be good," he says with a gentle smile.  "How about we skip the martini and dinner for a bit, and just lay down for a little while.  Would that be okay?"    
  
Donald nods his acceptance, face still unhappy, then Timothy gets them both out of the shower, toweled off, and guides Donald to the bed.  
  
"Sweetheart," Donald says, his eyes a little glassy in the subdued light.  "I've...  There's something I need to tell you."  
  
Timothy gives Donald a warm smile, then captures his husband's left hand, pulling it gently to his lips, spilling kisses on Donald's bare ring finger.  "I know, darling," Timothy says.  
  
"I'm so sorry," Donald sobs, close to tears.  "I was chasing the guy...  Then we got into it in a compost pile at the dump.  We struggled...  He hit me, I hit him..."  He finally looks up into his partner's eyes, quietly saying, "I'm sorry, sweetheart."  
  
Not one to let Donald suffer, Timothy pulls Donald close, whispering, "It's okay, darling.  Honestly...  It's really okay."  
  
"No it's _not_..." Donald says, pulling back and wiping his eyes.  
  
"Darling," Timothy says, not continuing until Donald looks up, catching his gaze.  "I have a bit of a confession to make as well."  
  
Looking at him, Donald reaches down, pulling Timothy's hand up to his mouth, kissing the gold band he finds on the ring finger.  "What?" he asks quietly.  
  
Blushing, Timothy is evasive for a moment, standing up and starting to pace, then finally blurts, "That _wasn't_ your first wedding band."  
  
Catching his breath, Donald asks, "What?"  
  
Timothy pulls away from Donald, starting to pace again until Donald gets up and grabs his hand.  "What do you mean, it wasn't my _first_ wedding band?" he quietly asks.  
  
"Darling," Timothy says, his eyes darting nervously.  "I never expected to tell you this, but...  That was your _fourth_ wedding band."  
  
" _Fourth_?  How can that be my fourth?"  After a minute, he says, "You've always managed to find...them..."  Donald closes his eyes, wiping his face, shooting Timothy a cautious smile.  "Timothy?  What did you do?"   
  
"Well..." Timothy explains, blushing furiously.  "You see...  I've _known_ your profession isn't always the safest - for you _or_ for...material things.  So I..." he pauses, wrinkling up his eyebrows self consciously, "I kind of...had a backup plan."  
  
" _Backup plan_?  Care to explain this to me, Mister Callahan?"  
  
"Well...  Remember the Carnegie case?" Timothy asks, Donald nodding a moment later.  "You came home late at night, and thought you'd lost your ring?  And then the next morning I found it in your shoe.  Remember?"  
  
Nodding, Donald says, "Yes," an impish smile breaking in on his face.   
  
"I didn't really find it.  That was your _second_ wedding band.  And then there was the Simpsons case..." he ticks off on another finger.  
  
"...where you found my ring in my overcoat."  Donald lets out a nervous laugh.  "Sweetheart..." he says, then shakes his head.  "C'mere," he says, pulling Timothy next to him on the bed.  
  
"You're not mad?" Timothy asks.  
  
"Absolutely not," Donald says.  "Because I married not only the most caring, loving, _beautiful_ man of all time, but he also just happens to be the most brilliant man in the world."  He leans up, giving Timothy a well-deserved kiss.  "So how many _did_ you buy?"   
  
Smiling, Timothy says, "I _always_ have two on hand.  I've got an agreement with Morgans downtown.  You lose another one, I magically find it the next day, and then they send me another replacement."  He goes to his dresser, pulling out a small, nondescript box from the back of his sock drawer, opening it for Donald to see.  Before putting it back, he plucks one of the shiny bands from the box, then tucks the box back into his sock drawer, walking over to Donald a second later and placing the band on Donald's ring finger.    
  
Glancing at the clock, Timothy sees it's a few minutes to 6pm.  "Hold that thought," he says as Donald tries to pull him onto the bed.  "I need to make a quick call to Morgans."  
  
"Later," Donald protests, then reaches for Timothy's hand, pulling him fully onto the bed.  He pushes his husband down into the mattress, then climbs atop him, leaning down to claim a kiss.  
  
"Donald..." Timothy moans, then smiles as Donald kisses his way down Timothy's body, showing just how appreciative he is of his inventive husband.


End file.
